was bruised all over. His head was bandaged. ‘What day is it?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What date?’
‘How do I know? Eat.’
This, he knew, was the house of the carpenter who had hit him so effectively with the mallet. The man was eager to make amends, had given Sharpe this room, had even sharpened the sword on a stone and propped it beside Sharpe’s bed. The girl was a housemaid, black-haired and plump, with a bright smile and a teasing manner. One of her eyes was blind, a white blankness where there should have been a pupil. ‘Eat!’
The doctor came, a gloomy man in a long, stained black coat. He bled Sharpe’s thigh. He had raised his eyebrows on his first visit, scarcely believing the scars on Sharpe’s body. Beyond the doctor, through the window, Sharpe could see the smoke still hazing the grey clouds above the castle. Rain was soft on the window. It seemed to have been raining ever since he had woken in this room. The doctor wiped the small cut and pulled the sheet down. ‘Another two days, Major Vaughn.’
‘I want to go now.’
The man shook his head. ‘You’re weak, Major. You lost much blood. The bruises.’ He shrugged. ‘Two days of Pedro’s food and you’ll be better.’
‘I need a horse.’
‘The French took them all.’ The doctor threw the cupful of blood into the fireplace and wiped the bowl on the skirts of his coat. ‘There may be a mule for sale tomorrow at the market.’
‘There must be a horse! They’re feeding me horsemeat soup!’
‘That horse died in the explosion.’ The doctor spat on his lancet and wiped it on his cuff. ‘I will come tomorrow if God wills it.’ He turned to go, but Sharpe called him back.
‘Señor?’
Sharpe grimaced as he tried to sit up on the bolster. ‘Did you ask about the Inquisitor, Doctor?’
‘I did, señor.’
‘So?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘His house is at Vitoria. There was a time when the family had land throughout Spain, but now?’ He shrugged and hefted his small bag. ‘Vitoria. That is all our priest knew. You will forgive me, Major?’
When he was alone Sharpe sat on the edge of the bed. He felt dizzy. He wondered how hard the blow on his head had been. It throbbed still and the lump was like a hen’s egg. He swore quietly. The rain fell.
He pulled on the linen shirt that he had worn ever since Helene had given it to him at Salamanca. There was fresh blood on the collar.
He put on the French overalls that he had taken from her brother. The rip in the bib had been made by Sharpe’s sword. The tear had been mended, but he could still see how he had twisted the great blade when Leroux fell.
His head hurt as he leaned down and tugged on the big French cavalry boots. He felt better with the boots on. He stood and stamped his feet into comfort. His legs were stiff. There was a vast black bruise on his left thigh.
The jacket felt good. He buttoned it from the crotch to his chin, forcing his bandaged hands to do the fiddly work. The fingers of his left hand were not wrapped and with them he picked up the sword. It jangled as he buckled the snake clasp. He had no shako. He had nothing now but the clothes he wore and the sword that hung at his side. He had no cloak, no razor, no tinder box, no telescope. He had a secret that could win the war for France that he must take to Wellington.
‘What are you doing?’ Consuela, the maid, stood in the doorway.
‘I’m going.’
‘You can’t! You’re weak as a kitten! Go on! To bed.’
He shook his head stubbornly. ‘I’m going.’
They tried to stop him, a gaggle of women at the foot of the stairs shouting at him and fluttering like the nuns in the convent. He thanked them, pushed gently past them, and went into the yard of the house. The yard was filled with wood shavings. The rain was cold on his face.
‘You mustn’t go!’
‘I have to go.’
He had no horse so he would walk. It was hard at first, his bruised muscles refusing to make the stride easy. He crossed the great plaza, still smeared with the marks of the exploding French shells, past the cathedral that had been saved from the flames, and the townspeople watched him silently. He looked an odd figure, a soldier with a slashed head, black eyes, walking stiffly like a man going to his death. He had not been shaved this day and he thought for a moment of stopping at one of the barbers who waited for trade by their chairs in the street, then remembered he had no money.
He crossed the Arlanzon, seeing the water pitted by the rain, and already the water was cold where it had soaked through his uniform.
‘Señor! Señor!’
He turned. Consuela, the half-blind maid, was running after him. He stopped.
She pushed a package wrapped in oil-paper into his hands. ‘If you must go, Major, take this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Cold chicken. Cheese.’ She smiled. ‘Go with God.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Consuela.’ He walked eastwards on the Great Road, following the French army that had long gone, walking to a war.
He stopped that afternoon in an orchard. He ate half of the chicken, and wrapped the rest of the food in the paper. Then, every muscle aching, he went to the stream that ran through the thick orchard grass. He knelt at its edge.
He used the fingers of his left hand to undo the bandage on his right. It came stickily away, the last tug hurting like fire and ripping the crust from the wound. He hissed with the sudden pain and thrust his hand into the water.
He flexed his fingers. He watched the blood dilute and go, wispy red, downstream. He spread his fingers wide, let the water flow into the cut, then took off the bandage that covered the wound made by the knife. The cut was on the ball of his left hand. It too bled into the water. He left his hands in the stream till they were numb.
He unwrapped the bandage from his head and dipped his skull into the water, holding his breath to let the stream flow about his hair. He drank. He took his head out, flicked the wet hair back with a jerk, and saw the horsemen.
He stayed still. He was on all fours. The horsemen were on the Great Road, hunched beneath their cloaks against the rain. They were Partisans and they rode to battle. Sharpe could see corks stuck in their musket muzzles, see the rags wrapped about the locks, see the sabres protruding from the wet cloaks.
He could have called out, he could have shouted for help and asked for a horse, but he did not. The men were fifty yards away, visible through the twisting trunks of the stunted apple trees, and Sharpe had seen their leader. He had seen the black beard that grew up to the high cheekbones, the small eyes, the broad blade of the poleaxe on the man’s shoulder. It was El Matarife. Sharpe stayed rock still as they passed, then settled back on his haunches.
El
